Most professionals believe that the act of writing a note on the back of a business card is a demonstration of care, but in reality, it is a polite way of ensuring you will forget the person entirely. We treat the back of a business card as an extension of our memory, a physical hard drive for the fleeting sparks of a breakfast mixer or a trade show floor.
We convince ourselves that the ink we apply to the cardstock creates a permanent record of an intention. In practice, we are merely performing a ritual of closure. Once the ink is dry, the brain gives itself permission to discard the actual sensory data of the encounter, trusting that those four words-“Melbourne, daughter, ask uni”-will be enough to reconstruct a human life later. They never are.
The Thursday Morning Audit
It is on a Thursday morning at a co-working space on Robinson Road. The air is thick with the scent of expensive roasted beans and the low hum of air conditioning units struggling against the Singapore humidity. Shanice, a financial adviser with a client list that requires meticulous upkeep, is emptying the contents of her tote bag.